Booksmart
by tobeconquered
Summary: "Try it, then," she says. He swallows hard, looks at her in what he hopes is a confused manner. "Try what?" "My accent. Try it."


"I don't know how you do that."

"Do what?" she says distractedly, still running the tip of her finger down his figures, looking for where the mistake might be, mumbling absently to herself.

_Dooo wot_.

_Charming_.

"Your voice, it's —" _stunning, enchanting, beautiful, seductive, __**Christ **_—"interesting to me."

She does look at him now in surprise, then wrinkles her nose.

_Adorable_.

"Really?"

The word rolls off her tongue and he hums his assent because it's all he can manage.

She's still bent there over his ledger, looking sideways at him over her shoulder, considering him, and he suddenly wishes he could hide his lap beneath his desk.

"Try it, then," she says, shifting, smiling at him now, turning her hip and perching herself on the edge of his desk so that if they were closer their thighs would slot together.

He swallows hard, looks at her in what he hopes is a confused manner.

"Try what?"

"My accent. Try it." She is still smiling, beaming at him, really, and it's wreaking havoc on his defenses, on the side of him that's saying this is all very silly, very improper in the middle of the afternoon.

"I couldn't possibly," he says, and it's lower and softer than he means to be, but there it is.

She scoffs.

"Are you sure about that, _Charlie_?" she asks, goading him, teasing him, not for the first time, with her discovered knowledge of his past. He has never been surprised she found out, she knows everything somehow, impossibly, always, but he _is_ surprised to find that from her, the gentle ribbing does not bother him, at least, not in the way it should.

Instead, she says his name and he slams his eyes shut— _her, him, her voice, saying his name just as she did, just now the way she caressed it with her pretty lips, but panting, whimpering, saying it again and again as he_— opens them again wide because, lord, that had not been a good idea.

He realizes he's been quiet too long when he sees that her smile is fading, that she's torturing her poor lower lip again, and he thinks she might be getting ready to apologize. Suddenly, he's desperate not to break the mood, whatever that is. He likes her like this, playful and happy, and he certainly doesn't want her sliding from the edge of his desk just yet, so he speaks, says the first thing that comes to his mind which is:

"Cheeky."

And he is very pleased by the way her lip biting turns into holding back a smile, into twinkling eyes and pink cheeks. A nonchalant little shrug makes her dress strain just a bit, but he valiantly keeps his eyes on hers.

"Go on then, I dare ye!" she says, and he can tell she's doing it on purpose now, thickening her brogue, provoking him. And they are never like this, never, it's never so easy between them because he doesn't let it be, because he knows it's dangerous, but it's a gorgeous summer afternoon, and she's a gorgeous woman, and she's just called him _Charlie_, of all things, and would it be so bad to not resist just this once? To give in just a little? He shifts a bit in his seat, wishes very much for the shield of his desk.

"Alright then. What shall I say?"

"Oh, something simple, I think," she looks about them, then taps one finger on his ledger. "Try book," she says, pouting her lips just-so as she says it.

_Cruel. Cruel without even knowing it.  
_  
He blinks a little longer than strictly necessary.

"Book," he says, and it's a weak imitation, he knows, but he's not trying very hard, wants to see what she'll do with that.

She gives a little frown.

"No, you've got to — your mouth needs to— " she pouts her lips, tries to show him. "Like this," she says, and he couldn't be more endeared if he tried.

Still, he plays his role.

"Certainly not! I couldn't do that. It's physically impossible."

She rolls her eyes and he just resists the urge to roll his chair forward so he is between her legs, could make her roll her eyes in a different way and — _my, where had that thought come from.  
_  
He shakes himself.

"Obviously not, _Charlie_."

She says it again, rolling those R's, and his hand is white-knuckled on his knee now.

He is playing with fire.

"Book," he says again, making an exaggerated pout of his mouth and he lives for the way she chuckles at that, gives that little laugh of hers that always sets him just a bit on edge, a bit off kilter.

"No, no, Mr. Carson. Like this. Watch very carefully," she says, as if his eyes haven't been glued to her lush lips anyway.

He nods his agreement, makes a little show of watching intensely, rolling closer to her, leaning forward with his brows drawn together, his fingers brushing over his own chin and lips as if deep in thought. He looks up to her eyes briefly, makes a careless little motion.

"Go on then," he says, still mimicking her poorly, and then returns his gaze right back to her mouth.

She laughs again, and he can't miss the way her pink tongue sneaks out to wet her lips, the way her nails tap against the edge of his desk as she leans forward too, just a bit, and tries again.

"Book."

She says it very slowly, exaggerating every letter, every sound, and he knows exactly what he's doing wrong of course, knows his lips must be rounder, his tongue dipping lower, but he butchers it anyway, just because.

"Book."

She leans away from him momentarily and fixes him with a stern look.

"You're having me on," she accuses, but there's no venom in it, no bite like there'd be if she was serious, and he gives his best look of innocence, his — _no, your lordship, I had no idea _— face, and her eyes narrow, but she surrenders just as fast, doesn't dwell.

"It's the way you're holding your mouth it's — too stern or something, you must" — she gestures towards his face, contorts her own in the necessary way, and then before he knows what she's doing, she's reaching forward, is placing her elegant, manicured fingertips on either side of his mouth and he can smell her scent, _roses_, can feel the slight edge of her neat, oval nails resting there against his skin.

"Like this," she says again, gentler, close to his face, so close he can feel her breath and see the way her eyes are watching his slightly slackened mouth, the way she's pursed his lips. He doesn't think when his tongue darts out to wet them, and her little intake of breath, so soft, so low he barely hears it, causes the tightness in his trousers to grow.

"Book," he whispers, and it's perfect, the perfect imitation of her that he could do all along because she's been his partner, his friend, his every day, his life's work in many ways, and he's made a study of her, has delighted in her and known her, and when he's been drinking or is missing her in the season, he can even admit he's loved her.

Still does.

"What?" she breathes, but neither of them is paying any attention to their game now, neither one is acknowledging the way he's sliding toward her, his hand colliding with her knee, her thigh, pressing up, the way she's pulling him just slightly by his chin toward her waiting lips, the way they are both a bit breathless, both clenching the hands not holding each other, squirming just that bit closer.

They draw slowly, so slowly together, enough that they can almost pretend it isn't happening, as if they aren't headed exactly where they are, but when his lips are on hers everything shatters, the moment pulses and beats, and then it feels as if a bomb has gone off, his insides are jumping, his ears ringing and he can think of _nothing_ but surging up and kissing her harder, with all the franticness he feels, and so he does.

He rises up and she falls back just a little and he lifts her fully onto the edge of his desk and that sensation alone is enough to nearly end him, crack his fragile control. He groans into her mouth, and swallows the little sounds she's making as she claws at him, tangles her fingers in the hair at his nape.

_God, he should stop. This is wrong, so wrong and he will, he will stop just_—

He nips at those full lips, catches the lower between his teeth and rocks forward just a bit against the desk, tightens his grip on her hip when she whines again, low and breathy.

His hands are not moving from the fullness of her hips, they are not feeling her shape as he wants to, longs to, because if he does he definitely won't be able to hold back, but he can't stop his tongue, the way it flits between her open lips and seeks the tip of hers, plays with her there until they are both hot and desperate.

She is giving as good as she's getting and does a little twist with her tongue that makes him wonder where she learned _that _and forgets to care just as fast, pressing against her harder, begging her with his body to do it again.

And he wants, god, how he wants to feel her, to run his palms along her sides and cup her through her summer dress, tease along the edges of her corset until she's swollen and taut and begging him, pleading with him to ruck up the mystery of her skirts and see the magic of her there, pulsing and hot, and to spread her out beneath him, push her wide, and then finally, finally—

He pulls away from her so fast the chair slides out from behind him and hits the wall with a thud.

His blood is pounding and he can barely think, can concentrate on nothing but her heavy lids, the way her dress is stretching across her breasts with every pant she heaves, the way her voice is thicker, but higher, sounds slick to his ears, almost as he imagines she is there —

_God, no, stop. They have to stop_.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, tries to breathe deeply, collect himself, see sense.

"We can't, gods, we can't," he finally says, opening his eyes to look at her again.

He's made a mess of her dress, half rumpled, and her lips are wet and plump and he wants to press her back on the desk and do all the things he's dreamed of doing to her for twenty years, but he resists. Tries to take some pleasure in the fact that she's clearly struggling too, making a little humming sound in her throat as she sits up more fully, pats her hair. He almost can't believe his eyes as she crosses her legs, knee over knee, and it isn't proper, not at all, but if she's on fire the way he is he can't blame her, wouldn't even think to if she _weren't _on fire because the sight of it, the image of what she might look like underneath that dress, in just her underthings, with her legs crossed renders him only able to think about pushing them open again, if he's honest.

"No," she finally breathes, "you're right, we can't."

And because he knows her, fancies that he can sometimes, _sometimes_ read her like a _book_ he thinks he knows what to do next, what to say.

"But, Mrs. Hughes, _Elsie_," he looks at her hard, tries to convey everything he feels for her through the intensity of his gaze. "Soon," he finishes and he hopes she knows he means soon everything, soon all of it, soon her in a frock and him in a suit and her with _his_ last name, her ring and _their_ names in a _book_.


End file.
